[!-- original reads 486 --]‘Good!’ said the man; and with a knowing look at Rust, and a shambling bow to the girl, he went out, and seated himself on a chair in the hall, having taken the precaution to send his companion to keep an eye on the windows, which were within leap of the ground.
Rust returned to his seat. ‘Come hither, Ellen,’ said he.
His daughter rose, and came to him; but in dead silence.
‘Look at me. Am I much altered?’ inquired Rust.
The girl raised her eyes to his. They quailed before his stern, searching glance; but she replied in a low voice: ‘You’re very much altered; you’re wearing yourself out.’
A smile of strange meaning crossed Rust’s face. He turned, and pointed to the picture which hung against the wall.
‘Was that ever a good likeness of you?’ asked he.
His daughter glanced at it, with some surprise at the sudden question, and then replied: ‘I’ve often been told so, father—a very good one.’
‘They told you the truth. It was a good one; and now,’ said he, turning to her, and fixing his eyes on her face: ‘Do you think I am as much changed from what I was, as you are from what you were, when that picture was painted? Mark it well!’ said he, speaking quickly and earnestly, and leaning forward until his face almost touched hers. ‘Look at every feature. See what innocence, what purity of soul and thought is in every line of that face. An angel might have envied its innocence. There is a mirror,’ said he, pointing to the looking-glass; ‘Now look at yourself.’ He half rose, and his voice was cold and cutting as he concluded.
The girl grew red; then deeper and deeper crimson; then deadly, ghastly pale; the perspiration stood upon her forehead, and her eyes were blinded with tears; but she could not meet his glance.